


A case of silver lining

by advictim



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Healing, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/advictim/pseuds/advictim
Summary: Sherlock finds out that one can lead a happy life even if one's brain tries to sabotage it.





	A case of silver lining

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of personal in this one. To those of you, who do deal with similar hardships - I'm sending you my sincerest wishes that all would be well soon. 
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker, so do tell if there are mistakes. And I'm open to constructive criticism - I want to become better at this!

It wasn't worth the effort. 

The rational part of Sherlock’s mind knew that if he got up from the sofa and made himself do something, anything at all, eventually the heaviness would lift and little by little, he would regain his functionality, but right now, it simply wasn’t worth it. He was useless, pathetic, and weak, and he wrapped himself in the too familiar feelings like in a blanket. The only consulting detective in the world – the reason there weren’t more was that the world didn’t need any, and would get on just fine if Sherlock would cease to exist. In fact, ceasing to exist was such an inviting thought. Sherlock knew enough about various ways to die to know that there weren’t any neat one’s – death was messy, often painful, and required much more effort than he had to spare at the moment. Sherlock would have preferred wishing himself out of existence, the way he wished to wake up as a pirate when he was a child, but even his strong will was not enough for that.

The fact that the feeling was temporary was of no comfort – he felt awful right now, and only right now existed. The future was not a certainty, the past offered only regrets and shame, and right now was unbearable, so he lay on the sofa, his back to the world, wishing for everything to just stop. At least he was alone – at his childhood home, Mommy used to fuss about him and Mycroft tried to force him out of his misery by the share force of his disapproval. None of these tactics reduced the misery, or the time it took for it to pass. His father was the only sensible one, letting him be and not making Sherlock feel guilty about it. It was better now, when he had a home of his own and no one to inconvenience just because he wasn’t functioning like a proper member of society should.

It was getting dark. John had enough sense to close the curtains before leaving, and as soon as the sun began descending, the flat was submerged in long grey shadows. John was often thoughtful like that, catering to Sherlock’s whims and wishes, though there was little he could offer in return. Hopefully, John would find himself a date for the evening, or go for a pint with friends, or do any of the activities normal people did, so Sherlock could willow in his misery undisturbed. Until now, John managed to suffer through Sherlock’s moods without much fuss, and Sherlock dreaded for the time when it would finally be enough for John and he would either demand for Sherlock to snap out of it, or move out himself. Quite possibly both – people often left, even the ones who seemed promising at first. It was one more proof that Sherlock deserved to suffer and there was no point in fighting it. It was only rational – Sherlock was not a valuable member of society and thus he didn’t feel like one, therefore, getting better was not an option. He already got enough handouts – an occupation to entertain himself with, sufficient resources and, unlikely as it was, John as friend. John already stayed far longer than Sherlock predicted, though Sherlock had to admit he hoped that John would continue to stay. Hope was not in any way rational, not in this case, when all the evidence from the past proved the contrary. The familiar knot of anxiety rose in Sherlock’s stomach and he did his best to will it down – he survived in the past, and he will survive this one, worrying won’t change anything, so why think about it? Sherlock sighed deeply. It was about all the effort he could spare in terms of movement, so he remained on the sofa, in a state between wakefulness and dozing. He couldn’t tell how much time has passed, but he didn’t really care.

Sherlock snapped out of his near sleeping state when he heard the door open. John was home. He was early – no pints or dates then. Pity. The flat filled with sounds of John moving about, and on one hand, they were familiar and comforting, but on the other, Sherlock could nearly see the disapproving shake of John’s head when he glanced in the direction of the living room sofa, where Sherlock was still in the same position John left him in the morning. John would change, start dinner and would ask if Sherlock wanted any. Sherlock would not answer, so John would eat his meal alone, and would either go out for the evening somewhere more cheerful, or would do something boring that didn’t require being in the living room. If Sherlock was lucky, this would not be the day when John decided enough was enough. There was some clatter in the kitchen and Sherlock tensed in waiting. 

Sherlock should have known. John tended to act unpredictably from time to time, and thus the evening went on a little differently. John did prepare something, but he didn’t ask if Sherlock wanted any, nor did he sat down to eat alone. John came to the living room and sat on the end of the sofa, moving Sherlock’s legs a little to make room. Sherlock risked a glance at him. John opened a book and settled in, as if it was perfectly normal to have a quiet evening reading while your roommate imitated a log. 

John was quiet in the beginning, but after a while, he started reading aloud the parts he probably thought Sherlock would find interesting or entertaining. He was wrong of course, but his voice was much more pleasant than the one in Sherlock’s own head, and as no response was required, Sherlock listened without really caring what was being said. From time to time, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s bare ankle, just below the hem of his pyjamas, and gently rubbed it before lifting his hand to turn the page. The touch was friendly and unoppressive, and it anchored Sherlock the way nothing before managed to. After a while, John put down his book and started telling Sherlock about his day at the clinic, the hand on Sherlock’s ankle remaining a constant presence. 

“You would have liked the professor with arthritis,” told John. “A very perceptive fellow, he would probably enjoy reading you monograph about ash. I should tell him about it next time he comes for a visit. I’ll turn on the T.V. now, say if the sounds are irritating.”

John turned on the programme they watched a few days before, the one Sherlock enjoyed deducing the contestants in. The host tended to ask the contestants personal questions, so Sherlock could check if his deductions were right. He got about eight out of ten, not bad for something observed only through the screen. John called Sherlock amazing a lot that evening, it was a warm memory.

At first, Sherlock ignored the show, but his curiosity got the better of him and he turned around. Too tired for deducing, he simply stared at the T.V., catching a detail here and there.

“Closeted gay,” mumbled Sherlock about the contestant who kept gushing about his girlfriend. John snorted.

“Drug addict,” said Sherlock, while the man in the show went on about the strength of his faith in god. John gaped at him in disbelief. 

“A wife and two kids,” said Sherlock about the one that just entered the studio in the show. A host then proceeded to question a contestant and he revealed being very happily married and proud of his three daughters. Sherlock grunted in annoyance. 

“I still think it was remarkable,” said John. The commercials started and John went to the kitchen to come back with a plate of sandwiches he must have made earlier. John placed the plate in front of Sherlock on the coffee table. The sandwiches were crustless, cut into small triangles, with ham and cucumber – Sherlock’s favourite. Sherlock knew that food was likely to elevate some of the heaviness he felt, but in most cases, he couldn’t muster enough energy even for ordering take out, and his appetite was non-existent. This time, the sandwiches were right there, and they looked appealing enough for Sherlock to take one. John took another and after finishing his, Sherlock did as well. The sandwiches were perfect – bland enough not to irritate his palate, easy to chew and done in a couple of bites. Sherlock took one again and when he wanted to take one more, he was surprised to see them all gone. It was only then Sherlock realised he was pleasantly full, so it wasn’t only John’s fault the plate was already empty.

“Tea?” asked John during yet another commercial break. 

“Yes, please,” answered Sherlock and sat up. His head was still too heavy, so he rested it on the back on the sofa, until John came back with two mugs. They sipped the tea, watched the show, and Sherlock offered a deduction here and there, though not as many as he usually did. It only was worth the effort because John reacted with surprise and amusement. 

By the time the show ended, they both were yawning. 

“You look knackered,” said John. “Go to sleep properly in the bed, will you? I can give you a pill if you want?”

“Not necessary, thank you,” answered Sherlock. He doubted he would be able to sleep, not after a whole day of dosing on the sofa, but pills made him groggy in the morning. He was tired though, and none of the experiments seemed important enough to start immediately. The bed then, there was nothing else left to do.

Surprisingly, Sherlock fell asleep fast enough. John was already out when he finally got up, and Sherlock wandered about in the flat, being unable to decide what he should do next. The despair from yesterday still lingered and it was hard to concentrate, but he had a little more energy, though it was hard to figure out where to use it. He started tidying up his old case files, but got bored quickly and left them in a bigger mess than before, and went to the kitchen to do a chemistry experiment, but discovered that John left him some more sandwiches and ate those instead. Sherlock decided to go through his notes, there were some ideas for experiments in there, but when he went to his room for his notebook, he forgot why he went there and nearly flopped back to bed in frustration. 

There was no use in forcing things, he just had to think. Sherlock sat in his chair in the living room and went to wander in his Mind Palace, a basement where he kept his half-formed ideas and confusing concepts. Yesterday went better than Sherlock expected – John managed to help him through without really doing much. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock felt deeply grateful for John, though he usually tended not to dwell on it. This time Sherlock decided to ponder the thought a little more. John crossed the boundary of a convenient flatmate to a dear friend early in their arrangement, and as reluctant as Sherlock was to admit it, was stepping in a territory of becoming something more. Sherlock scoffed at declarations of love. Love was an unreliable feeling, easily confused with physical attraction, excitement, and even fear. He met enough people consumed by possessiveness, pride and entitlement to know that thinking one was in love didn’t necessarily made it so. Passion was celebrated by society, but Sherlock learned not to trust it, preferring the calm rationality even in emotional matters, or especially in those. There was a lot of adrenaline during the first case with John, so Sherlock quickly quelled all the feelings that arouse, not wanting to do anything with confused emotions, as appealing as John’s advances were at that moment. He wanted to spare John the embarrassment of realisation that Sherlock wasn’t an adventurous crime fighting hero, and as promising as John looked, there was always a chance he might turn out to be as dull as all the others. This wasn’t a concern anymore, obviously, John proved time and time again to be an enigma in an unassuming wool jumper, and for a long time Sherlock thought that it was all John was. He wasn’t so sure now. All the usual signs were there – an urge to impress, fluttering stomach, unwillingness to stay away for long, but in addition there were trust and tenderness, and some deep affection that overcame Sherlock in seemingly random moments, when John did something so uniquely him. There was no point in denying it – Sherlock was in love, and it passed way beyond the stage of a crush now. Being in love was not necessarily a disadvantage, despite what Mycroft liked to claim, as long as one was rational about it. Sherlock was confident enough in his ability to act in a sensible manner – their arrangement with John was satisfactory, it wouldn’t do to mess it up just because of some inconvenient feelings, though once Sherlock admitted to having those, it was hard to tamper a yearning for more. Carefulness was essential. Sherlock was sure about his own feelings now, and the next logical step was to figure out John’s without compromising their relationship. An experiment, then, Sherlock had to only wait for an opportune moment and conduct some experiments, and with that resolution in mind, Sherlock opened his eyes. 

The first thing Sherlock saw was John, sitting in his chair in front of Sherlock. John was relaxed, leaning on the arm of his chair, supporting his head with one hand, and his soft gaze fixed on Sherlock, a gentle smile on his lips. Sherlock had no idea how long they sat like this.

“A new case?” asked John, still smiling. Sherlock liked when John smiled.

“Sort of,” said Sherlock.

“Did you solve it?”

“Close to it.” 

John looked pleased to hear that.

The experiment was supposed to be simple. Pick some variables, change them, record John’s reaction and repeat until some definite conclusion can be made. Sherlock did it a million times before. The problem was, a baseline was needed for the experiment to be meaningful and for some reason, John was uncharacteristically uncooperative. Day after day John exhibited signs of elevated mood, and Sherlock kept postponing the experiment. At first, it was irritating, then Sherlock became frustrated, and when two weeks nearly passed, he became anxious. John’s happiness was not the only problem. Even bigger issue was the fact that Sherlock had no idea what caused it and no amount of observation led to a satisfactory deduction. John’s mood was similar to the times he had a requited romantic interest, but he didn’t go out for dates or brought anyone home. There could be something about John’s job, but he kept complaining about it as per usual, and took no extra shifts. There was always a chance Sherlock missed some sports event that John enjoyed watching, but even after the biggest victories the effects didn’t last that long. Something that Sherlock hadn’t accounted for made John positively beaming and it drove Sherlock mad. Though it wasn’t intentional, the irritation reflected on Sherlock behaviour, but even when John snapped and scolded Sherlock for being obnoxious, a sort of playfulness seeped into John’s features. Sherlock’s thoughts kept going in circles, but there simply was no explanation. Even Mrs Hudson noticed John’s cheerfulness and Sherlock nearly bit her head off for daring to suggest that John was extra chirpy that day. Something had to be done.

In the evening, when John came back home from the clinic and grinned from ear to ear the moment he stepped in to the flat, Sherlock had enough. 

“What the hell is going on?” spat Sherlock, cornering John.

John’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What the hell is going on with you? Why are you so damn happy?”

“Really? Would you prefer me to be miserable?”

“For god’s sake, enough with the obvious!” shouted Sherlock. “There must be a cause for your mood, but you haven’t been on a date in a while, you still hate your job and haven’t won a lottery, so pray tell me, why?”

John laughed. “There’s something you forgot to mention.”

“What? What is it?”

John stood straighter. “Yes. Right. Are you aware that you sometimes talk out loud when you do that Mind Palace thing of yours?”

“Do I? No. Wait. Oh!” Serlock’s mind started racing. John was aware what sort of “case” Sherlock was solving, and he was ecstatic about it, but what did that mean, exactly?

“So you don’t mind then?” asked Sherlock.

“Mind what?”

“Me, having feelings of romantic nature towards you.” Sherlock fidgeted a bit. It was too warm in the flat, and a little stuffy, and he might have eaten something contaminated for lunch, because there was a hint of nausea in the back of his throat.

“No, I don’t mind your feelings of romantic nature,” John shook his head at that, stepped closer and took Sherlock’s hand. “Do you still wish to do that experiment or can I just tell you the outcome?”

“Yes. That. Do tell me.” It was definitely too warm, he will have to have a word with Mrs Hudson. And maybe John was right to nag him about labelling things in the fridge.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip and pulled him in. There should have been nothing to worry about – Sherlock could see the answer in John’s eyes, and yet, Sherlock never felt such an eager anticipation to hear the words out loud. 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” said John, simple as that, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. John stated this profound fact with such calm conviction, Sherlock had no choice but to believe him. He tried to reply with something poetic, elaborate and meaningful, to match the gravity of the statement.

“John,” said Sherlock.

“Yes.” John seemed to understand. John always did. 

Sherlock’s free hand went to caress John’s temple, and Sherlock was surprised to discover that was something he wanted to do for a long time. John reacted favourably to that and the next moment, Sherlock was being kissed, gently and sweetly, and there was something already familiar about John’s lips on his, as if that’s where they were supposed to be. Sherlock finally understood how John felt after finding out – Sherlock wanted to never stop, but his happiness caused him to grin, and it was hard to grin and kiss at the same time.

“Is it my turn to be mad at you for being too happy?” asked John, though his smile matched Sherlock’s.

“My sincerest apologies,” said Sherlock, and pecked John on the corner of his lips. John giggled. Sherlock was moments away from bursting in to waltz with John. Maybe John would mind too much.

“Utterly forgiven,” said John. “Just promise not to stop.”

This was a sort of happiness that should have lasted a lifetime. Sherlock was so confident in his ability to keep the promise it was especially hard when his dark mood hit him again. Ashamed that John’s love was not enough for stopping him from plundering into misery, Sherlock holed up in his room, but John had none of it. This time it was a bath together – Sherlock couldn’t say no to that, and as irrational as that was, water did dilute the blackness in Sherlock’s mind a little. 

“Have you ever considered a specialist?” asked John, when Sherlock was finally acting as himself. 

“I’m fine John,” said Sherlock. “There’s no need to subject some poor quack to the horrors of my subconscious.” John rolled his eyes, but let it go for a while.

It took an especially hard episode, when even John’s efforts didn’t make much difference, for Sherlock to agree to go. John helped him find a specialist that looked least like an idiot and accompanied him to the first appointment. Sherlock tried to be patient, he really did, but after a fifth question about his feelings towards his mother, Sherlock stormed out of the room. He felt a perfectly normal and common mixture of devotion and annoyance towards his mother and had absolutely no time for this nonsense.

Sherlock only agreed to visit the next one because John insisted. To Sherlock’s surprise, the therapist made no promises of curing him, nor did she force him to talk about his parents. Half the time they spent discussing the rationale behind her therapeutic exercises and after a while the appointments became something to look forward to instead of a tiresome hassle. She taught him some strategies to either mitigate the episodes, when he felt they were coming, or deal with them easier, if they still happened. Some of those things Sherlock already knew about, but there were a few unexpectedly effective, as sceptical as Sherlock was in the beginning. John had a new arsenal in his fight to get Sherlock to sleep and eat better, but it was all right, because Sherlock himself started noticing that he was better off with a stricter regime, though some of the more complicated cases still managed to throw him out of it. John didn’t blame him for that, and Sherlock was grateful. 

What didn’t change was Sherlock’s hatred towards his inability to fully control his mood. Darkness was creeping up on him, sticky and suffocating like tar, and the truly worthy case was only able to postpone it. Sherlock paced in the flat, trying to grasp to something interesting to distract him, but his will was weakening. John would have been able to think of something, but he wasn’t home yet. Sherlock concentrated all his efforts on waiting.

The moment John stepped in to the flat Sherlock understood something was wrong. John flopped down on the sofa without even removing his jacket.

“What happened?” asked Sherlock.

“A child,” replied John, rubbing his face. Sherlock didn’t know the details, but he understood enough. John’s practice meant he rarely had to deal with deaths of his patients, but injuries and terminal illnesses still existed, and even John Watson couldn’t save everyone. Something had to be done, before John plunged into self-blame and hopelessness that would last for days.

“Have you eaten?” asked Sherlock.

“No. I don’t think I can.”

“You should,” said Sherlock. “Wait here.”

Sherlock went to his room to change. One of the reasons he was so meticulous about his wardrobe was moments like these – he grabbed a random outfit without thinking too much, confident that he will look decent enough. This was urgent.

“Up,” Sherlock told John. “You had a rough day, I’m treating you to dinner.”

John looked like he wanted to argue, but eventually he sighed and stood up. They went out and John followed without a question, still lost in his reminiscence.

“Remember the Clipperton case?” asked Sherlock.

“Mm? What?”

“The Clipperton case, John!”

“Ah, yes, what about it?”

“The girls were found in this basement,” said Sherlock, standing in front of one of the ordinary looking houses in the street. All the windows were dark. 

“Really? Wow, who would have thought?” John looked around. “I’m just glad they were on time.”

“They wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for you insisting on taking care of that homeless man.”

“I couldn’t just leave him there,” shrugged John and they went on, approaching the place Sherlock intended taking them to.

“Doctor Watson!” greeted the woman the moment they entered a small Indian restaurant.

“Hello, Mrs Dhawan, how are you?” John allowed to be taken to the table and seated, with a lot of fussing about.

“I am very well, doctor, thank you,” the woman was bringing their menus and rushing the girls who waited the tables simultaneously. In Sherlock’s opinion, John should have been treated with this level of respect in every place he showed up.

“And how is your son?” John asked Mrs Dhawan.

“My son is very well too!” the woman brightened up even more. “He’s such a smart boy! He recently learned how to tie the shoelaces and now he does it quicker than me using both of my hands!”

Sherlock waited for Mrs Dhawan to go away. “You were so sad that you couldn’t save the boy’s hand, and they are just happy that their son is alive,” Sherlock told John.  
“What are you trying to say?”

“That you do a lot of good. More than can be expected of you.”

They ate, and though John still looked remorseful, his posture showed less of despair by the time the evening ended. 

Back in their flat, they were mostly silent until they climbed in to their bed and turned the lights off. 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” said John when they settled in. 

“I barely did anything.”

“Thanks anyway. You were feeling under the weather yourself lately?”

“Just a little.”

“Still. Care for a back rub?”

Sherlock scooted closer and John began caressing Sherlock’s back. At first, it was random and unpredictable, but soon it would settle in to a pattern that would became slower and slower until John fell asleep. It helped Sherlock relax too, and the best thing was he could ask John for that anytime, as well as for other small pleasures of caresses, rubs and kisses. No matter how hard they tried, bad times still happened, but as long as they both had that, for Sherlock it was worth it.


End file.
